The boy had to get his booster vaccines for school, and I took the school seriously when they sent home a letter saying that no one would be admitted to Seventh Grade without them. Lord knows I do not want to be one of those parents who merrily drops her kid off after 6th grade summer break and then gets that phone call canceling her liberation until she can get her kid properly immunized. I got all organized and arranged an appointment.

Now, it’s been years since my kid had anything worse than a mild cold, so he can’t even remember the last time he had to go to the doctor for a round of shots. We are sitting in the doctor’s office, and he is clearly scared of what’s to come. This is pretty funny, since he’s the size of a grown man. He looks at the nurse and says, “I heard I have to get four shots. Is that true?” She shook her head and said, “No, it’s only two.” He gave me look of slight relief, and repeated “Only two.” So I did what any concerned mother would do. I said, “Yes, it’s only two sweetheart. But you should see the needles. They’re huge!” He looked like he was going to faint. The nurse quickly reassured him and showed him the needles. He bucked up and got the shots over with, shocked at the fact that it didn’t hurt at all.

As we were walking to the car he gave me a sideways glance and said. “Mom, that was mean. I can’t stand you.” And I said, “Dude, you didn’t sleep through the night until you were five years old. Get used to the payback.”

And now for the paint…

Making sure my kid is up to date on his shots is just one thing that has kept me out of my studio most of the week.  I finally got some quality time with my paints this today…

On Monday my sister sent me a text that said, Just heard about Maurice Sendak, are you wearing black?

I texted back, No, I am wearing a wolf suit and making mischief.

R.I.P. Maurice, your paintings made me want to be an artist as soon as I could hold a crayon. I named my own boy after the King of All Wild Things and read him your books night after night. Somewhere out there the Wild Rumpus has begun for sure.

I am a sucker for any book or movie set in a huge and crumbly house filled with secrets and deceptions. If some thoroughly detestable character gets murdered early on, that’s a bonus, but it’s not necessary.

It’s rather disappointing that I missed out on the era of the great British weekend house party. Of course, it’s not like I’d have been a guest. I know my ancestry well enough to know I’d have been hauling coal up the back stairs to make sure the Quality were toasty in their beds and had plenty of hot water for their baths.

I imagine there is a tremendous house party going on here, and the honorable Lady Winifred Wallingsdale has just discovered her priceless emeralds are missing. She has shouted the alarm, causing people to scatter high wide and handsome out of bedrooms they were not assigned when they arrived.

And this guy? He’s the gardener’s son who refuses to sleep indoors and has a way with untamed creatures.

Oh, I’m tickled with this week’s painting. I’d like to say this is a self portrait, but that would be a bald-faced lie. I almost forgot this was Friday, and was sitting around in my own tiny world when I remembered that I needed to post something for PPF. Luckily I had a painting or two handy.

I also remembered I was supposed to bring cheese and crackers to a wine tasting . Well friends, there might have been a time when I would have tried to convince people that I knew about things like gourmet cheese, but that would be another bald-faced lie. Trying to pretend to be something you aren’t is way too time consuming.

I stopped off at the grocery on the way over and picked up a box of Ritz crackers and can of spray cheese. By God, if it was good enough for my wedding reception, it was good enough for these folks.

 Well, I may not be able to act glamorous, but at least I can paint it.

This week I tried abstracting my landscapes. Can you see the village? What do you think, am I on the right track here?

And just so we can say I give all my obsessions equal treatment…a nice lady with elaborate hair and a complicated dress.

This is Lydia, who is parched from dancing and waiting on her gentleman friend to bring her a glass of champagne.

That Lydia knows how to live.

This is Flora. Flora is glad the warm weather has returned. Warm weather means she can go out with wet hair. In the winter her mother insists that she use a hair dryer. Do you have any idea what concentrated hot wind does to hair like this? It’s worse than Hat-Head, which is the other winter hair disaster.

I am pining for Italy. Or France, or Spain, or anywhere in the Euro zone.  I’m not picky really, as long as a fair amount of the architecture predates television and a significant portion of their domestic production is wine … or cheese. Is that so much to ask?

I figure if I keep painting it, surely I will conjure up a nice transatlantic flight.

I had an epiphany a couple of days ago. It’s warm weather here, so the winter clothes are gone and my extremities are out in the open for the first time since last November. I was sitting on the patio the other afternoon with my kid and his friends. One of them pointed to my arm and said, “How’d you get that scar?” and then pointed to my foot and said, “and that one?” I looked at the scars as though I had never seen them before. I couldn’t do anything but shrug.

It took me three days to remember childhood accidents that literally left me scarred for life. I’m sure at the time they were traumatic as all hell, and now I can barely remember them.

That, my friends, is when you know you are grown.

This week’s landscape is a little glacial lake. I want a cabin somewhere on the shore of this lake, but only if there is also a small town hidden in those hills with a good pizza joint and a well stocked wine store. Everything else I can order online, but with pizza and wine, speedy access is really the key to enjoyment.

And this is Gabby, who is still young enough to remember how she got all of her scars, both of them.

Last night I was peacefully watching Nurse Jackie on dvd. I am a sucker for Edie Falco, she is at least ten kinds of fabulous, mostly the kinds that involve not caring what people think about your haircut or your refusal to try and be sexy and cute when you have kids and a job to do. I would love to be Edie when I grow up, but I am a little afraid that I will always care too much what my hair looks like, I am Southern, it’s in our dna. From the cradle we are taught to care what our hair and our lawns look like.

That being said, please don’t judge me by the state of my lawn. I married a Northerner who had four square feet of grass in his whole neighborhood, mostly around street signs. When he was a kid they had to pay an admission fee to see half as much grass as we walk across to get the mail. He marvels at grass and can’t quite believe it will ever return if you cut it.  Yankee please, it will grow two and a half inches the hour after the mower is put away just to spite us.

It’s Paint Party 2.2  I have faces, castles and rocks, but no trees. Do forgive me.

Spring has burst full out this week, allowing me to open the windows and air the house out so it doesn’t smell like a junior high school locker room any more. Now if I could only get my husband to stop cooking things that smell like they have already been digested…

This is Letitia Louise, also known as Lettie Lou.

Lettie Lou frequently gets advice from bluebirds. She listens politely, but bluebirds aren’t known for their problem solving capabilities.  And they usually have bug breath.

And cause I know y’all love you some trees…